Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

‘That’s true.’ Saggers’s expression shifted as he looked over at Pyke. ‘But you seem to have your suspicions…’

‘About five years ago, a fund-raising campaign was launched to raise enough capital to build as many as fifty new churches in the city. So far, ten have been built or are being built…’

Saggers finished what was in his wineglass. ‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’

‘Just be patient. I’m trying to think… One aspect of this campaign was to persuade as many people as possible to leave an endowment to the Church in their wills.’ Pyke thought about what the old man living on Cheapside had told him. ‘Let’s assume that the campaign was a success, but that people didn’t just leave money to the Church, they also left their properties.’

‘That seems plausible enough.’

‘But in order to turn these properties into capital, the Churches Fund, or those overseeing it, would’ve had to put these properties on the open market.’

‘There’s nothing illegal about that,’ Saggers said.

Pyke rubbed his beard, the part under his chin that itched the most. ‘But what if City Holdings Consolidated sold these properties to Palmer’s company for well under the market value and then Palmer, Jones and Co. sold them on to the City Corporation at the full price?’

That seemed to prick the journalist’s curiosity. ‘If we’re talking about a lot of properties across the entire city, and if the mark-up was great enough, we could be talking about a vast amount of money.’

Pyke was thoughtful. ‘Did you know that Isaac Guppy, rector at St Botolph’s, died with more than forty thousand pounds to his name, in six different bank accounts? And Guppy served in an administrative capacity on the fund-raising arm of the Churches Fund — the arm that tried to persuade people to leave endowments to the Church in their wills?’

Saggers took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face. ‘None of this has been reported, has it?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I take it no one has yet proved that the forty thousand was stolen from this fund.’

Pyke shook his head. ‘Before all this happened…’ He gestured at the cap and clothes he was wearing. ‘I was allowed to inspect the Churches Fund’s accounts. Everything seemed to be perfectly in order.’

‘Seemed?’

‘It struck me just now. What if there was another set of accounts? A set that gave a fairer sense of the large sums that were paid into the Fund and the much smaller sums that were made available for the church building programme.’

‘You’re saying there might be a discrepancy?’

Another set of accounts.

Pyke had said the words without realising what they meant. Saggers must have seen his expression because he reached across the table and touched his arm. ‘What is it?’

Whoever had broken into the archdeacon’s safe in March of the previous year hadn’t been after the Saviour’s Cross — the accounts had been the real prize.

‘I know someone who works for Palmer, Jones and Co.,’ Saggers said. ‘Perhaps I could quietly talk to him. He’s involved in the new road they’re building through St Giles — the one they had to demolish those slum houses on Buckeridge Street for.’

It was suddenly so obvious that Pyke was astounded he’d missed it for so long. For the second time in as many minutes he sat there, unable to speak.

The last time he had been to the archdeacon’s home, on Red Lion Square, it had been summer and the interior had seemed cool and airy. On that occasion, it had been morning, and he had entered via the front door, invited but not entirely welcome. This time, he picked a lock at the back of the house and entered via the kitchen, taking care not to disturb the policemen stationed at the front. Pyke didn’t know what he wanted to prove by confronting Wynter with his accusations, and what it would achieve if Wynter acknowledged that a set of accounts had been stolen from his safe along with the Saviour’s Cross. Still, as he crept through the lofty, oak-panelled hall and noticed the same Gainsborough and Titian paintings he’d seen hanging there in the summer, he knew he wasn’t going to leave until he’d forced the truth out of the man.

It was after midnight and the servants were all asleep. Pyke intended to confront Wynter in his bedroom, if necessary. He’d based this plan on the quite reasonable assumption that Wynter and his wife slept in separate bedrooms; on his previous visit, he’d assessed their marriage as entirely loveless. But as he made his way up the oak staircase, it struck him that he was putting himself in a rather precarious position. All Wynter needed to do was shout and four, five, maybe more servants would all come running; then there were the two policemen outside. What would he do? Fight his way past all of them? At the top of the staircase Pyke paused, noticing light streaming out of a partly open door. He could hear someone moving around there and when that someone, a man, emerged, Pyke withdrew into the nearest room and held his breath. It was dark and the curtains were drawn so it took Pyke a moment to work out that there was someone asleep in the bed. He waited for the footsteps to pass and slipped back on to the landing. Perhaps it had been Wynter he’d seen, but Pyke didn’t think so. The man had been taller and younger than the archdeacon. He crept along the landing as far as the open door and peered inside. It was the legs he noticed first. Stepping into the room, he saw the rest of the archdeacon’s body. Blood was still leaking from the multiple stab wounds that peppered the corpse, a pool of crimson spreading over the polished floor. It struck him that Wynter had only just been killed, perhaps by the man he’d seen leave the room. Turning quickly, Pyke retraced his steps. At the top of the stairs, he heard a door close at the back of the building. As quietly as possible, he slipped down the stairs and left the house by the route he’d taken earlier. In the alleyway at the back of the house, he looked first left and then right. It was deserted. He turned left, ran to the end of the passageway and found himself on Red Lion Square. He could see the constables at the front of the building, still unaware of what had happened.

Pyke was about to give up the chase when he noticed a lone figure on the other side of the square. The man had stopped and was looking back in the direction of Wynter’s house.

Breaking into a run, and not worrying about whether he drew attention to himself, Pyke had crossed half of the square when the figure noticed him and bolted.

The streets were deserted, which meant it was easy, at least at first, to follow the man; and whoever it was made it easier still by staying on the main roads, first Red Lion Street and then High Holborn. It was hard to tell anything about the person he was pursuing — he was too far away and Pyke was running at full tilt — but whoever it was, Pyke decided, was taller and younger than him. And quicker. Just past Gray’s Inn Road, the man he was chasing did the sensible thing at last and darted into one of the side streets running north from Holborn. It turned out to be Leather Lane; it was dark and narrow and the cobblestones were slippery from the remains of the daily market. Pyke reached the first junction, looked right and then left, but couldn’t see his man. Gasping for breath, he carried on, but at the next junction he still couldn’t see him. There was a pub on either side of the street and the man could have gone into either of them. There were another two pubs farther along and at least two more that he knew of on Hatton Garden, any of which the man could have gone into. Not wanting to admit defeat, Pyke stood for a moment or two, trying to catch his breath. Could it simply be a coincidence, that he had turned up at Wynter’s home at the same time as the murderer? Pyke had been told by Whicher, who had found out from Wells, that the archdeacon had returned to London that same day. But how had the murderer known?